Sonnet Number One Hundred and Forty Five
by madamefaust
Summary: Sense and Sensibility: Colonel Christopher Brandon and Miss Marianne Dashwood become better aquainted. Taken heavily from circumstances invented by the film.


1AN: The tale begins immediately after Colonel Brandon brings Mrs Dashwood to Cleveland (yes I am fully aware this has been done to death) and continues with my own imaginings of what then took place. I've read a number of reviews of the novel where critics expressed skepticism about Marianne's marriage to Colonel Brandon and how they barely knew each other, I thought the film's little scene between them in the yard reading was charming and this little plot was born. Unfortunately or not, my Colonel Brandon will always be Alan Rickman, which is why I obsess over the voice toward the end. Feel free to tell me if this sucks.

Disclaimer: I own none of this, it's all Jane Austen's and Emma Thompson's, because I must draw all influence from the film version. The sonnets of course, belong to Billy Shakespeare.

_Those lips that Love's own hand did make  
Breathed forth the sound that said 'I hate'  
To me that languish'd for her sake;  
But when she saw my woeful state,  
Straight in her heart did mercy come,  
Chiding that tongue that ever sweet  
Was used in giving gentle doom,  
And taught it thus anew to greet:  
'I hate' she alter'd with an end,  
That follow'd it as gentle day  
Doth follow night, who like a fiend  
From heaven to hell is flown away;  
'I hate' from hate away she threw,  
And saved my life, saying 'not you.'  
-"_Sonnet #145" William Shakespeare

Marianne clung to her mother, her own dear mother, with the sort of urgency of a drowning man to a life preserver. She held her tightly, with remarkable strength for one so recently at Death's door, she wondered that her mother did not complain of pain, but, Mrs Dashwood had never complained, not even when they'd been turned out of their home by their relations. As she held her mother, Marianne suddenly became conscious of the exact situation. However had her mother gotten to Cleveland from Barton? Who had informed her of her illness? It could not, (Marianne's reason fought her romantic mind), have been the work of a premonition or a helpful angel. How then, came her mother to be at her bedside? Opening her still fever-bright eyes, Marianne saw the answer over her mother's shoulder.

Standing just inside the doorway, obviously uncomfortable to intrude upon the family's reunion, was Colonel Brandon. Marianne felt a minor twinge of annoyance, _Why is he forever about?_ But as her faculties slowly returned to her, so did the realisation of what must have come to pass. In truth, she remembered little from yesterday's, (_Was it yesterday?_) excursion to gaze upon the home of her beloved, caring little for the rain and caring less for her own life. Bits and pieces swirled about in her addled mind and she attempted to arrange them all. She stood, gazing at the manor where Willoughby had lived, where she had envisioned living with him in domestic felicity one day. She stood for how long she did not know; it may have been hours, it may have been years. She was as numb to the passage of time as her body became numb with cold. Vaguely, she remembered a voice, carried on the wind, as if from very far away. She'd turned then, slowly, as though fighting some great force and had seen, she was certain she had seen, a figure running towards her. A figure with great flapping black wings. For one wild moment, she'd thought it was the Death Angel, come to take her away to heaven with all the other young lovers who had been torn from the mortal world for their passions: Romeo and Juliet, Antony and Cleopatra, Guinevere and Lancelot. As the figure came closer, she realised the great wings she'd imagined were merely the edge of a wind-swept cloak. In another instant, a thought more wild than the first came to her numb brain. Was it Willoughby, again come to rescue her? But no...it was...who was it? In that moment the mist grew denser. She recalled falling, but never hitting the ground. Instead she was taken up into a pair of strong arms. She attempted to shake the fog from her eyes, she wanted to see her rescuer. A blurred image came drifting into her mind of a face, a face into which lines of worry were deeply etched, a set face, wet from rain, with so much rain that water appeared to pour from its eyes. Not Willoughby, for his eyes were always laughing, his face smooth and unmarked.

As Marianne stared at the man in the doorway, she matched the faces. The lines of fear had smoothed, relief now was its chief emotion. For a moment, Marianne caught the glimmer of water in his eyes. _But it is not raining._ Then she understood. Understood from the stiffness of his shoulders he had not slept, from the mud on his boots, state of his hair and dust on his coat that he had been riding. He turned to go, gently beginning to shut the door. Her lips parted then, she longed to say something, something that would show the depth of her gratitude and remorse for having thought his presence a nuisance. She had to say something before he left, for her mind was still not functioning properly and led her to believe that if she did not express her appreciation, she would never get another chance to. Unfortunately, all her parched throat and churning mind could manage was a, "Thank you, Colonel." That statement seemed wholly dull to Marianne, but the Colonel, who had halted, seemed to find it more than fitting and said nothing as he eased the door closed.

Elinor glanced over at her sister and offered her a slow smile. Marianne smiled briefly at Elinor, not grasping the implications and returned to embracing her mother. Elinor, in very high spirits compared to her mood from the night before and busied herself about the room. She toke away bed sheets and towels to be washed, as well as Marianne's sweat-soaked nightgown that the young lady had disposed of with a crinkling of her nose. After tucking clean sheets around her sister and seeing her sleeping soundly, Elinor left the room with her laundry, running into Colonel Brandon in the drawing room. He too had put on a clean set of clothes and had evidently taken to pacing. Elinor went to him smiling, for how could she but smile on such a day, and thanked him profusely for his speedy transport of their mother and proclaimed how much good it would do Marianne.

"Please, Miss Dashwood," he said with all his usual sincere formality, "it is what anyone would have done, I deserve no praise, for such actions. My greatest pleasure would be in seeing your sister make a full recovery." They were ordinary sentiments of politeness, but Elinor understood the veiled truth behind them, that these were not only the well-wishes of a concerned friend.

Smiling, Elinor remarked, "She is now asleep, which will do her good to see her too a quick recovery. I'd suggest the same for you, lest we next have Marianne charging all over the countryside looking for your sister to bring to you."

The furrows in the Colonel's brow lifted as he accepted her chiding. "Duly noted good lady. I suppose I shall sleep, if there is nothing else I can do to make myself useful?"

"Nothing at all," Elinor said in a tone that warranted to argument. "In fact, now that my mother is here, I too shall to bed. Just as soon as I take these clothes to the maid for laundering."

"Allow me, Miss Dashwood, the servant's quarters are very close to my chamber." That was a lie and Elinor knew it. Nevertheless, she acquiesced to the Colonel; she could get to bed faster and he would make himself feel useful. She handed over the basket and bid the Colonel a good sleep.

After taking the basket of linens from Miss Dashwood, Colonel Brandon waited until she was in her own chamber before heading in the exact opposite direction of his room. Though thoroughly exhausted, his steps never dragged, having had to perform feats far more taxing during his days in the army than delivering a basket of sheets to a chamber maid. With a jolt he realised he was carrying things that She had lain on and had to resist the ridiculous urging of his hart to lift them to his face an inhale her scent. His reason at once told him what utter nonsense such an idea was; the odour would not be pleasant and, as Miss Dashwood had already remarked, it would not do for him to become ill. It was therefore, with no regrets, and even a bit of amusement at his own silly thoughts, that he gave the bedclothes to a maid with the orders that they be laundered with extra care because of the severity of the young woman's illness. Burning them would not be necessary. Again, his heart shouted to his head that it would be a crime to destroy anything Miss Marianne had so much as looked upon and again, his head gave his heart a good reprimanding for the foolishness of such thoughts. Though Brandon possessed a sensitive soul, he also possessed the reason not to give into flights of fancy. He reminded himself that he was not a clumsy schoolboy, but a man, a colonel, no less, who knew better than to live by his emotions. Still, safeguarded by slumber, he could not but dream of sun breaking through a rainy field, as he held a beautiful young woman with hair that shone like tiger lilies in his arms...

After being pronounced well enough to travel, Marianne was removed to Barton for the rest of her recovery. She'd had to admit, she'd never been happier at the thought of returning to their cottage, a place she'd once thought the most unpleasant, isolated habitation in the world. She hated being confined to bed and longed for a walk, not knowing how much longer the weather would hold up and knowing that her mother and sister would never again permit her to so much as step outside in the rain without a length of rope tied around her waist, as both of them swore to. Of course, she had to admit, being confined to bed was not so terrible as it might have been; not being permitted to stir from bed, she'd had a steady stream of books brought to her from the library by her sister and Colonel Brandon. Unfortunately, the Palmers were not very well-read, and the books they did have were more suited to Mr Palmer's tastes that those of a young lady. Of course, Marianne did not know her sister and the Colonel scoured the shelves for volumes they thought she would enjoy. As lovely as these attentions were, Marianne found herself pining for the water and soft rolling hills of the place she was beginning to consider home. She also missed her Shakespeare, the Palmers having only a few of his plays, all about various Kings that could not hold Marianne's interest. She doubted she would ever be able to look at Sonnet 116 without bursting into noisy tears again, but, as Elinor told her, there were still 153 others to choose from. Marianne recalled a conversation she'd had the day she'd awoken, where she tearful told her sister that she would never again take joy in anything, Shakespeare least of all. Elinor smiled and shook her head.

"I shall give you some advice," she said, "feel free to do what you want with it, but as I understand it, the gentleman has quite a few love poems that are more than satisfactory to most. Why allow one instance, painful though it may be, to take away all your joy?"

In that instant, their eyes met and Marianne understood. Why let Willoughby have even that small victory over her? Yes, it was true, no other man would ever succeed in capturing her heart; that prize of battle would be his forever, but why lose her intellectual happiness? It was with this sort of determined optimism that Marianne waited for the carriage, leaning heavily on both the arms of her sister and mother. Though tired from her previous walk with Elinor to the place of her lamenting, she'd insisted on standing in the sunlight for a moment before being lifted into the carriage. That task was accomplished by the capable Colonel Brandon, after asking her permission. Now that she was no longer in danger, social niceties must be observed. He carried her as though she were light as a feather and set her in the chaise as gently as if she were a china doll. _He must be very strong_ she thought, then remembered, with a jolt, that he had carried her nearly three miles in the rain after she had collapsed. Her heart gave a tiny flutter that Marianne associated with her having exerted herself after laying down for nearly a week. It seemed the trend was to continue as she slept through the entire ride. Slept through the lunch hour, slept through their arrival at the "Big House", slept through Mrs Jennings's anxious inquiries after her and only woke upon the piercing shriek of Margaret, who, finding her sister motionless, thought her to be dead. Marianne quickly put her fears to rest after feigning indignation for being woken from her nap by Miss Margaret's fantasies. That set the whole party to laughing and ensured a bright mood during the rest of the ride to the cottage.

After two days of returning to Barton, Marianne's spirits sank again. She was tired; tired of being doted on by her anxious mother, tired of laying down all day and all night and tired of having no company while her family resumed the task of rejuvenating the cottage, which she had not been permitted to assist with. All of this was making Marianne very disagreeable, indeed. So much was her ire, that on one day, resting on the lawn, attempting to rediscover her love of sonnets (from her own volume and not the folio of Willoughby's, which she'd tossed on the fire when no one had been looking) that she threw the book with all her might across the grass. Marianne groaned and began to get out of her chair when she noticed a figure strolling up the path to the house, the back of a grey jacket flapping in the wind like the wings of an angel. _Perhaps it is not so_ _ugly. _She sat straighter in her chair, determined to be polite and attentive to the Colonel after all the trouble he'd gone through on her behalf.

Brandon stooped to pick up the book, glancing between it and Marianne with something like an amused smile. "Tired of reading, Miss Marianne?" he asked as he approached her, bowing respectfully.

"Yes," she said with a sigh, inclining her head. "Well, yes and no, I am tired of the task of reading, but not the pleasure one receives from it. It is simply that the print, small as it is, gives me a headache in the sun."

"Would you perhaps like it if I, if I am not too bold in asking, were to read to you?" Colonel Brandon braced himself, expecting to be politely, but firmly told that she thanked him for the kindness of his proposal, but would prefer to be left alone.

To his great surprise, Marianne's eyes lit up, "Would you? Mama has no time, Elinor no patience and Margaret no style to read to me. I confess, I have become irritated by the sound of my own voice. It appears," she added in a conspiratorial tone, "they've grown weary of caring for the invalid."

Other than the increased beating of his heart, which the Colonel was certain Marianne could never detect, there was no other indication to the level of pleasure he derived from her acceptance. With a small smile, the Colonel went into the house to retrieve a stool on which to rest while reading. As he left, Marianne suddenly became conscious of what she had agreed to. Brandon! To read to her! Oh, she had no doubt he would be twice as dull as Edward had been, being twice as old. _Ah well,_ she though, settling back down on her pillows, _being still in recovery, I can simply send him away by complaining of a headache or some other ailment. _Sometimes, Elinor did have good ideas, she was beginning to think polite lies really did have some merit. As the Colonel returned, Marianne briefly attempted to work her face into what she hoped was polite attention, but feared it may appear as though she had a stomach ache and remained looking impassive.

"Have you any requests?" the Colonel asked, as he settled himself down before her.

"Oh no, you are free to choose any you like...just, "she paused, chewing her tongue for a moment, "not 116."

Tactfully, Brandon did not comment on this request, merely nodding and opening the slim book to a random page. As the Fates would have it, he landed right on Sonnet 116, hardly surprising as the binding was creased in that place especially. Turning the pages as though searching for a particular poem, Brandon let his eyes skim roam the words. _Seventy-two_, he thought, _that seems..._but as he read the sonnet, he recalled what he knew of 116and decided the antithesis of the sentiment would hardly be better than the dread sonnet itself. Frowning, Brandon leafed through more sonnets, becoming quite frustrated with their appropriateness, for they were, in fact too appropriate. _"Being your slave..." oh heaven, no. "When I hath seen Time's fell hand..." no. "As fast as thou shalt wane, so..." God, she already thinks of me as elderly, why should I enforce the image?_

At the Colonel's obvious troubles, Marianne immediately assumed he was not read enough to understand the poetry before him. Her heart sank, she feared to hear what words may come, jumbled, from his mouth. Edward had no feeling, that was true, but at least he was capable of pronunciation. Good Lord, she would cheerfully trade in the voices of a thousand of Edward reciting, rather than listen to Brandon stumble through the sacred passages. She raised her hand to her head in order to feign a headache when she noticed Brandon's face relax, a smile tug his lips as he found what he had searched so long for. Something that would touch on his heart, without relating too overtly. Marianne braced herself for the worst...

"'Music to hear, why hear'st thou music sadly?" Brandon recalled their first meeting and Marianne's sweet, lamenting song. "Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy..."

Marianne's mouth fell open as she stared openly at Brandon as though she'd never seen the likes of him before. True, he did not read with wild passion as she was wont to. But the emotion, the depth in his eyes, his face, his voice- and such a voice! -how could she have not noticed it before? Deep so that it hummed down in her chest, full of the words of Shakespeare, his tone at once sad and hopeful. It was not so much the performance itself that awed her, but the fact that the one reading was none other than stuffy old Colonel Brandon. She did not notice when he'd stopped reading, but continued to look at him, with an unreadable expression on her face. The Colonel's hue heightened faintly to red.

"I am no great orator, I confess," he began, but Marianne interrupted him.

"No! No, that was- was lovely, Colonel," she blinked and took over command of herself. "I mean, especially coming from..." Now it was her turn to blush.

The Colonel smiled indulgently, though his heart cracked, just a bit. "From a stuffy old officer like myself?" He said the words with no condemnation in his voice, not even in his mind. However, the excitable Miss Marianne was quick to decide he meant as much.

"Oh, no!" _Oh yes, presumptuous girl!_ Her rational mind, (which sounded much like Elinor), reprimanded her. "I just supposed, being in the army, well, I thought you would not" _understand_ "like Shakespeare."

"Quite the contrary, I assure you," he said, his smile genuine at her attempted sparing of his feelings. "Whilst I was stationed in India, I eagerly read all of the Bard's works. As...exciting, as my military career was, one does miss the quiet pleasures of an evening in the library. Books brought me back home you see, I took great solace in them." He paused, uncertain if he'd revealed too much of himself to her. Even if he had, Marianne seemed to appreciate his candour. If he could see inside her mind, he would come across and interesting picture himself illuminated by the light of a single candle against the dry air and shadowy backdrop of an Indian summer, brow furrowed as he bent closer over a tattered copy of Shakespeare, caressing the book with the tenderness one reserves for a lover.

Quite overcome for a moment, Marianne brought herself back to England and the cottage and the current Colonel Brandon. She indicated the book with a wave of her hand, "Please, read on."

"Of course, if you wish. I shall attempt to hasten my selection," he added a merry twinkle in his eyes. His eyes flashed over the pages for a moment before setting on the first to catch his eye, "Those lips that Love's own hand..."


End file.
